In Memoriam
by Fellowshipper
Summary: It’s funny, the things you remember long after everything else has faded from memory. BobbyJohn oneshot


**Title:** In Memoriam  
**Rating:** PG-13 for adult content and a couple brief mentions of drug use.  
**Continuity note:** After X2. The Atrocity Known As The Third Movie didn't happen. I think it's best for all concerned that we keep on believing that.

It's funny, the things you remember long after everything else has faded from memory.

Bobby Drake, for example, remembers the first time he met John. Mr. Summers brought him in, introduced the two of them. Bobby offered his hand; John glared at him before finally telling him to go to hell. The other students tried to befriend the new kid, this skinny, arrogant little boy, but they all met with similar results and harsher words. John made it quite clear that he didn't plan on socializing with anyone, much less total strangers.

He remembers the horrible nightmares John suffered when he first arrived at the school. So many nights he woke up to the sound of barely contained sobs and pathetic sniffling. Unable to handle the constant whimpering, Bobby was left with little choice but to wake John up, and the older boy, with sweat pouring into his wild eyes, angrily pushed Bobby away and refused to acknowledge anything ever happened when morning came. After that first fateful incident, Bobby took to slipping in John's bed when the really bad dreams occurred, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other pushing dark, damp hair from John's forehead. The pained, childish mewling would eventually fade as he unconsciously sought closer contact to whatever it was comforting him. So he would bury his face in the crook of Bobby's neck, his muscles gradually relaxing until he lay limp in Bobby's arms. Bobby always made sure to be back in his own bed before daybreak.

He remembers watching in amusement John's slow progression from antisocial hermit to just plain antisocial. Once it had finally registered with him that he hadn't been brought to the school through some sort of elaborate scheme to hurt him, he stopped spending his days hiding in his room; instead, he would make brief appearances in public to confirm he was still indeed alive, then proceed to virtually ignore all who dared to talk to him – except Bobby.

He remembers the ease with which John slipped into the role of "token smug bastard" that provided a welcome contrast to the seemingly perfect student body. John worked hard to build and promote a reputation as some hardened badass who didn't need or want anyone, and for a while he even kept it up around Bobby until he realized it was completely transparent to someone who spent so much time with him. Completely undermining the carefully crafted attitude, Bobby was well aware that John still watched cartoons, that for whatever reason he was a big animal activist, that he was a closet science geek who especially loved chemistry.

He remembers the first time they kissed, the sloppy, spontaneous product of a fight over something trivial enough to forget. One second they were arguing and nearly to the point of coming to blows over the matter, and then Bobby, showing the initiative so rarely seen in John's presence, bridged the distance between them and grabbed a fistful of John's shirt, yanking him close enough and with such force it was only by some divine intervention their heads didn't collide. Surprised as he was, John couldn't even put up a defense. Before he could really react at all, Bobby's mouth was on his, and suddenly he was tasting whatever cool mint gum Bobby was chewing at the time.

He remembers being shoved away, the ashy taste of cheap cigarettes lingering on his tongue, heart racing so he thought it might burst from his chest. He raised a trembling hand to his mouth, surprised when he drew back to see blood dotting his fingertips from where John had bitted his lip.

He remembers loving the wounded animal expression on John's face as the other boy panted from across the room, leaning against the dresser for support.

"Bobby," he whispered breathlessly, fingers curled around the top edge of the dresser so that his knuckles turned sickeningly white. Bobby, in return, raised the collar of his shirt, pressed it to his bottom lip, and walked wordlessly away.

He remembers the first time they made out after that first ill-fated kiss. John started it that time by "accidentally" brushing his hand across Bobby's thigh, which might have been a plausible excuse if it hadn't happened four times before Bobby finally got the hint. And when he did, the movie they were watching didn't seem so important anymore.

He remembers how effortlessly they found each other's mouths in the darkness, aided only by the dim glow of the television screen. Simple, innocent kissing gave way to petting, then rubbing, until at last, in a graceless, urgent display of long limbs and messy repositioning, Bobby found himself flat on his back. Meanwhile, John knelt over him on his knees, one hand pressed between Bobby's legs behind him, the other drawing intimate patterns on the younger boy's chest. Within moments, it seemed, John was jerking him off, and all Bobby could do was repeatedly whimper John's name over and over again as if seeking some sort of unholy redemption through his chanting.

He remembers sitting by the lake buried deep in the woods on the Xavier estate. He and John adopted the spot as their own as soon as John got over his bad boy complex around Bobby, and it had since become a sort of retreat for them. So many days were lazily spent there, the two of them sitting on the dock with their bare feet dangling in the water, idly passing a joint back and forth. Bobby, truth be told, hated the taste, but had to at least enjoy the end result. And besides, it made John happy, so it had to be worth something.

He remembers how they would show up there at every available opportunity – quick breaks between classes because they were stressed, or longer getaways during the weekends because they were bored and everyone else had gone into town. Most of the time they simply sat in companionable silence, but sometimes John let his guard down enough to reveal details about himself Bobby might otherwise have never known, details like how John had spent most of his life in and out of various foster homes, all of which he was kicked out of because he was a "problem child." Details like how he'd never really had any friends because of how often he moved. Like how the first time he'd ever had sex, it was for money because he'd run away from the umpteenth foster family and desperately needed food.

He remembers the night John goaded him into smoking more than usual and how John turned their fairly innocent make out session into the first time they made love.

He remembers with vivid clarity the painful way John's fingertips dug into his hips, the way sweat burned his eyes as his body reacted violent to John's talented mouth and hands. Over and over again his back arched from the bed, head twisting at impossible angles against his pillow. He wrapped his legs around John's waist, squeezing and pulling him closer as his nails left blazing trails down John's back.

He remembers, when it was over, holding John close to him, one hand keeping John's head on his shoulder and toying lazily with his hair, the other drawing lazy circles against John's back. For the most part, John remained quiet, save for the occasional unintelligible mumble against Bobby's throat. Bobby, in return, wanted to tell John he loved him; the words were right there at the front of his mind, racing through the thoughts in his head to be the first to reach his mouth, but they swelled up and choked him every time he tried to spit them out. Teenage boys weren't supposed to be sleeping together and they sure as hell weren't supposed to profess their love for each other while doing so. Not to mention the fact he didn't exactly see John as the type to take kindly to someone going all mushy on him. So he never told John, never hinted at it, but he likes to tell himself now that John knew anyhow.

He remembers when Marie came to the school, how everything changed the instant she showed up in his and John's lives. With her arrival, Bobby's entire existence turned upside down, and John responded accordingly by trying everything in his power to first distract Marie, and when that didn't work, to all but drive Bobby crazy by treating him like any other student at school. When Bobby and Marie started to get closer, John retaliated the only way he knew how, which was to use other people's weapons against them. In this case, it involved a long string of nights spent away from school, many of which ended with him being dropped off at the door by police officers weary from dealing with him. Sometimes he charmed his way into some pretty person's attentions and ultimately into their bed, but Bobby quickly found that they all invariably bore eerie resemblance to himself; blond hair, blue eyes, relatively preppy, possessing a sense of humor close to his, some a little taller than him, some shorter, but always like him in some way. If John had intended to both flatter and completely creep Bobby out, then Bobby had to admit that John succeeded admirably.

He remembers the night Stryker's forces attacked the school – something his dreams would likely never let him forget – but more importantly what came before that. The day had started off with a trip to the museum made infinitely more interesting, if dangerous, by John's stunt in the food court. Then Logan popped up out of nowhere and John acidly noted later that Marie almost had flames coming from her heels as she abandoned Bobby and ran to greet her grumpy unrequited love at the door. Bobby, in return, ordered him out of his room – their room – and slammed the door in his face. And later, when his hunt for Marie turned up only that she and Logan were in the rec room catching up on what had happened in each other's lives in his absence, Bobby trudged back upstairs and leaned his forehead against the wall by his door, closing his eyes when the familiar scent of cigarettes and burnt wood and his aftershave that he'd repeatedly told John to quit using because, hey, it was his and it was expensive.

He remembers not being particularly surprised when he turned to see John staring at him. What startled him, though, was the lack of contempt in John's eyes that was so readily apparent whenever Marie was nearby. He looked as gentle and insecure as he ever did by himself, and Bobby knew instantly what was going to inevitably follow.

"John, don't..."

"You know I'll still be around when she runs off with the old man," John pointed out quietly, brown eyes almost black in the dim light of the hallway. That was all it took, that single minute way he tilted his head to the side; Bobby barely had time to catch his breath before he was pushed against the wall and John's body was crushing his against the wood paneling, John's leg pushing urgently between his own, John's mouth working earnestly at swallowing him whole, John's long fingers and deft hands – street thief hands, he noted – pulling and tugging insistently at Bobby's clothes. Somehow they tumbled into their room, more or less falling onto Bobby's bed and pushing, physically begging for more, for something they knew neither of them could give so long as a third person was involved.

He remembers all of this without even trying, and yet no amount of trying can make him remember enough to make him happy, because memories are all he has now. The next day saw them stare death in the face more than once and yet even that might have been preferable to Miss Grey's almost casual announcement that John had abandoned them for Magneto. Bobby had wanted to scream that she was wrong, that maybe John had been threatened or kidnapped or something, but the bitter truth was that he knew in his heart she was right. John had always wanted to be able to flaunt his attitude and powers without restraint, both of which were sharply limited at school. As a boy who had grown up on the street, John wanted more than anything to constantly advance his position and damn the consequences of his actions so long as he came out better in the end. John relished power and the ability to exercise it at will, something Magneto saw in him and exploited. Bobby hated him for that, hated John for falling prey to his own ego, hated himself for not stopping John from leaving the plane that day.

Try as he might to forget, he remembers when, a year later, Magneto launched an attack against some military base in Genosha, some tiny little insignificant island Bobby had never heard of that claimed his best friend's life nonetheless. Scott rounded up the team and the lot of them traveled to intervene, and though they were able to keep the fight from escalating into a full-blown war, it was Bobby who found John's body, limp and growing cold despite the intense heat around them. His lighter still rested in his palm, though his hand had relaxed against the ground however long ago. Magneto and his stupid blue whore and their overgrown idiotic cat and slimy green guy somehow managed to escape, but for all his sacrifice, John had been left behind, chalked up to just another casualty in the human-mutant war.

He remembers sitting by John's bed when they turned off the respirator a week later, remembers Marie clenching his shoulder and sniffling obediently as her emotions told her she should for a peer, but John's cynical voice that had been ingrained in Bobby's head over the years told him she was just happy because the opposition was out of the way.

He remembers attending the funeral held at school, for although he had chosen Magneto's path and had never been particularly close to most of them, they still felt a sort of obligation to pay respects. So they stood in Miss Munroe's beautiful garden behind the school and went through the motions of offering parting words, all dressed in their best clothes and crying at appropriate moments. Bobby was the last one to leave, and only then because Miss Munroe came back out and all but dragged him away from the new grave.

He remembers, an hour later, sitting on the dock at the lake, bare feet dangling in the water, mindlessly smoking a joint he'd found in the pocket of one of John's coats when he first left. In his right hand lay the most obnoxious lighter he'd ever encountered, that metallic Zippo with the Jaws teeth painted on it, the one he'd scrubbed the blood off of because that was just a reminder he didn't want. He doesn't recall how long he sat there, staring blindly out across the water, only that at one point his hand turned sideways and he watched the lighter slide out of his palm and land in the water with a soft splash. He curled his knees to his chest and links his arms around them, watching the lighter sink deeper until it was swallowed by the water's black depths. And when he could no longer see it, the sobs he'd tried so hard to contain began wracking him, because only his paltry memories would remain with him now.

He remembers whispering to John in his sleep long ago that he loved him, that no one or nothing would ever change that. He remembers holding that trembling, frightened little boy in his arms and telling him that he was safe and that everything would be okay, and that was what Bobby wished he could forget.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to his reflection in the water, barely recognizing the blotchy cheeks and reddened eyes he saw looking back at him. His reflection, like his memories, had no remorseful answer, only looked back in unblinking indifference. Met with that, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and choked back another sob. "I-I loved you, you know. I still do."

Bobby just wishes he remembered saying that when it mattered.


End file.
